But An Earlier Heaven
by Thistle of Liberty
Summary: Small stories or scenes set in the same continuity as my other CM stories. WARNING! Will contain spanking of adults.
1. Garcia, Rossi, Reid

**A/N: Since I have now almost filled up "Means a Little Bit More" (the last chapter I have a plan for) I needed a new place for ficlets and drabbles and the like. I have no idea how much or how often I'll post something, but this is where it will turn up.**

**This chapter is mostly a kind of introduction. **

* * *

A happy family is but an earlier heaven.

-George Bernard Shaw

* * *

Garcia had started scrapbooking because she one day stumbled onto a small and absolutely wonderful shop that sold everything one could wish for in the scrapbooking department.

She had been completely enraptured by the hundreds of sheets of paper, stickers and countless other types of decorations. Perhaps a bit impulsively, she had bought an album and _a lot_ of supplies, before heading home to begin the project.

The first step was, of course, to find photos.

Her first step was Rossi, because she was pretty sure he would be amenable to contributing and he probably had pictures from when he was young and also from when Hotch was young. So one Saturday evening when they had no case, she knocked on the door to Rossi's lavish house. It wasn't he who opened, though; it was Reid.

"Oh. Hi, Garcia," he greeted her, brow furrowed in confusion at her presence. Garcia was equally puzzled at his.

"Hi, Reid. What are you doing here?"

"Uh…" Reid said, looking rather embarrassed as his eyes darted to the side, "I…"

He trailed off, but before Garcia had time to press further Rossi appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "He's grounded," he said, wiping his hands on a towel as he came forward to press a kiss to Garcia's cheek, "and Jason thinks he needs feeding. What are you doing here?"

Pretending she didn't notice Reid's blush and annoyed glare at Rossi, Garcia smiled. "It's nothing important. I can come back later."

Rossi raised his eyebrows. "Don't be ridiculous, kitten," he chided, "You're always welcome. Come on in. We were just about to eat and there's more than enough for you too."

"Oh. Thanks," Garcia said brightly, and at a gesture followed Rossi into the kitchen together with Reid.

"So what are you doing here?" Rossi asked over his shoulder while returning to his place by the counter, chopping tomatoes, "Give her some wine, Reid."

Still looking a bit disgruntled, Reid obeyed; getting out a glass and filling it with white wine before he took a seat at the table where, Garcia realized, he had his own wine-glass waiting for him.

"Are you allowed to drink when you're grounded?" she asked curiously.

"I am, with Rossi," Reid said, sounding as if he too was a little puzzled by it. Garcia turned her inquiring gaze to Rossi, who shrugged.

"Jason told me to feed him. I'm feeding him. It's not my fault my food needs wine to be fully appreciated," Rossi said and then – masterfully ignoring Reid's mumbled "it kind of is, actually" – continued "But we were talking about you. Not that you need a reason to visit, but I figure there is one."

"And you're right, Agent Awesome. I've decided to take up scrapbooking."

Rossi half turned to give her a puzzled look, while he continued chopping, something which Garcia rather admired. "What's 'scrapbooking'?"

At his place at the table, Reid was looking equally confused, so Garcia happily began explaining. "It's like making a memory-book. With photos and mementos and things that remind you of people and situations."

Reid frowned. "It sounds like something a serial-killer would make."

"Reid," Rossi said in a scolding tone. Garcia wasn't really offended though; now that Reid pointed it out she could see the parallels between classical scrapbooking and serial killer's 'trophies'. But that was true of regular photo-albums as well. And pretty much anything really, when you'd seen as many different killers as they had.

"What? It does," Reid defended himself.

"Doesn't mean you need to say so," Rossi retorted, sweeping up the now diced tomatoes and putting them in a bowl before moving on to a red onion.

"I don't mind," Garcia quickly broke in, "and he is kind of right. But hang on. I can show you some pictures."

With that she reached down for her bag to get out her laptop, but Rossi's voice stopped her. "No computers at the table! Or phones. Or anything like that."

Suddenly feeling a bit guilty – Rossi was very good at sounding stern – Garcia straightened. "Sorry."

"You can show me after dinner. And Reid, if he wants. And I guess you wanna take a look at my old photos?"

"That's right! So you've got some good ones?"

Rossi chuckled. "Oh yeah."

* * *

"It's very… pink," Reid said, frowning at the picture Garcia had brought up on her computer. It was one of the albums she had found a blog about and had immediately liked. In part, she had to admit, because it _was_ pink and glittery.

"It's for a little girl," Garcia explained, "Ours won't be pink. Not very pink, at least."

Rossi nodded thoughtfully, as he watched Garcia scroll through the pictures. "I'm sure it'll be great. Have you decided what pictures of the team to use?"

"Well… I thought I'd make a spread for each family member so I need photos of you doing you-stuff. Like Reid doing magic or you cooking."

"But you have pictures like that, don't you? You always take pictures," Reid said, eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement.

"Of course, my pretty. But I want pictures from everyone's entire lives and I don't have any of when Rossi was young. Or Hotch. And I want pictures of the Leroys as well. I'll want childhood photos from all of you, too!"

"There aren't very many pictures from when I was a kid, you know," Rossi said, "We didn't walk around with high resolution cameras in our pockets back then."

"But you have some, right?" Garcia asked hopefully.

"Sure. My mom probably has more, if you're serious about this. Anyway, here are the ones I could find."

He held out an old slightly battered cardboard box which Garcia eagerly took from his hands and opened, taking out a thick bunch of photographs. Next to her, Reid leant forward eagerly to watch as she sorted through them. Apparently he was as excited as her about seeing Rossi young.

The first picture was a young man – almost a boy – in uniform. After a moment Garcia realized that it was Rossi, at perhaps eighteen or so.

"That one's from right before I went to Vietnam," Rossi explained, "It doesn't really show, but I was scared as hell. I tried to hide it so I didn't worry my mom, but she saw through it. Obviously."

"How old were you?" Reid asked.

"Eighteen. Just a kid, really." For a while, Rossi stared in silence at the serious face of the younger version of himself, before he pulled himself together and gave Garcia a small smile. "You can have it if you want. There are more copies somewhere."

Garcia eagerly accepted, putting the photo aside, before she turned her attention to the next one. This one wasn't as staged as the last and had captured two young men on a sofa, looking as if they were involved in some kind of wrestling match. It was Rossi and Alexandre Leroy, perhaps in their late twenties.

Rossi frowned at it for a moment. Then he smiled widely.

"I remember this. It was the Italy-France game in the World Cup '78. Soccer, that is. Italy won." The last piece of information was shared with a decidedly smug grin and Garcia smiled back as she put aside the photo as another one that would go in the album.

They kept going through the pictures for over an hour, encountering photos from various stages of Rossi's life, in what seemed to be no particular order. There were pictures of Hotch as he must have looked when he and Rossi first met, often with a smile on his face that probably came from something the smiling people around him had said. There was a picture of Leroy in full dress uniform, including a sword hanging from his hip. Immediately after that one was he and his wife caught in what looked to be a rather passionate kiss.

Also, there were a lot of photographs with Rossi and women. _Different_ women. At the fifth one, Garcia and Reid gave him twin looks of disbelief. The older man shrugged. "What? Women like Italians. But… don't put those in the book."

There were pictures of Rossi's mother and various other relatives, most of them full of laughter and smiles. Garcia's particular favorite was one where Hotch was enveloped in Mrs. Rossi's embrace, his head drawn down to so the old woman could kiss one of his fiercely blushing cheeks. In the background was Rossi, obviously trying to contain his laughter at the younger man's discomfort.

"I really want to meet your mom!" Garcia exclaimed when she saw it. Rossi smiled.

"She wants to meet you too. I'll invite her for dinner soon, as long as you promise not to plot too much with each other."

Garcia gave him an innocent look. "Oh, I would never do that, sir."

"Yeah, right," Rossi scoffed, then gestured to the photo, "You can have it if you like."

"Thank you," Garcia said, smiling widely, and added it to her rapidly growing pile.

* * *

**A/N2: If you have story ideas or prompts or something like that, feel free to leave a review with them. I can't make any promises I'll write it, but it might spark something. :)**


	2. Rossi, Morgan, Hotch, Reid

**A/N: This takes place after "The Return" we're we get to meet Morgan's new girlfriend. I've been given a lot of great ideas by you guys, and will hopefully will have more to post soon. :)**

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"Well, when do we get to meet her?"

Morgan rolled his eyes. "Rossi, I've only been seeing her for a few months."

From his seat next to Rossi, Hotch snorted. "Dave marries people after he's been seeing them for a few months."

"Hey! That happened once. And she told me she was pregnant!" Rossi retorted, somewhat offended from the sounds of it. "And we're not talking about me; we're talking about Morgan's girlfriend. Is she pretty?"

"You know, Rossi," Reid interjected, "The Bureau's gender equality handbook says we're not supposed to objectify women."

"Why's everyone ganging up on me?"" Rossi asked, raising his hands in a defensive gesture, "But fine. Is she nice?"

"She's very nice."

"What does she do?" Reid asked.

"She's an emergency surgeon."

"Yeah?" Rossi asked, "Which hospital?"

"George Washington. Why?"

"That's were Jo worked. Call Alex and he can tell you the best way to break out onto the roof." Rossi gave Morgan a suggestive smile, leaving no doubt what kind of activities he felt the roof was suited for. Reid, though, didn't seem to get it, if the confused look he gave Rossi was anything to go by.

"Why would he want to be on the roof?" Rossi just raised an eyebrow and after a moment understanding dawned on the kid. "Oh."

"He's not going to be on the roof doing anything," Hotch said evenly, his voice making it perfectly clear that he _would_ be obeyed, "Because breaking into private property is illegal."

Rossi shrugged. "It's romantic."

"Breaking and entering?" Reid asked skeptically.

"Well, I was thinking of roof-tops, actually. But Hotch is probably right." At Hotch's very quiet "probably?" the senior profiler shrugged again and amended himself. "_Is_ right. Don't break the law to impress girls, kids."

"I wasn't going to," Morgan felt obliged to point out, "You're the one who suggested it."

"His mother told me he was a bad influence," Hotch deadpanned, earning a playful cuff to the side of his head, to which he replied with a thoughtful tilt of the head, "Maybe I should tell her you're encouraging the younger generation to break the law?"

Glaring at Hotch, Rossi shook his head in mock lament. "I've taught you too well."

"Maybe I should tell her that too." Hotch's smile was close to cheeky – which was fun in itself – but even funnier was the _very_ disgruntled look Rossi gave the Unit Chief. Morgan understood him, though. He too still had a healthy amount of respect for his mother.

"But seriously; when will we get to meet her? We've met Beth," Rossi pointed out, "At least tell us her name."

"It's Savannah."

Rossi nodded and then turned his gaze on Reid, raising his eyebrows questioningly. "Now do I get to ask if she's pretty?"

"You could just ask Garcia to find pictures," Reid pointed out. Before Morgan had time to smack him for giving the older man that idea, Rossi shook his head.

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Oh, God," Morgan said, apprehension suddenly flooding him, "You're not gonna give me a break about this, are you?" Rossi's devilish smile confirmed his suspicions. "Hotch!"

The Unit Chief raised his eyebrows, turning the page in his report. "With all the hassle he gave me about Beth? Not a chance."

"See? It's management approved," Rossi said smugly, patting Hotch's shoulder. At Morgan's pleading look, he shrugged. "I have two older brothers and more uncles than I can count, Morgan. I've been teased about every girl or woman I've as much as talked to since I was ten. I have no sympathy for you in this."

Stifling a groan, Morgan closed his eyes and let his head fall against the seat with a thump. He should have known letting his team know about Savannah would lead to something like this.


	3. Reid, Rossi, Rossi's mother

**A/N: On popular demand, some of Rossi's mother. What Reid says in here is true, by the way. I suppose it shows you're a bit damaged when you learn something in class and your immediate reaction is to write fanfic about it...**

* * *

Reid listened intently to the conversation being conducted in the kitchen, picking at the sandwich Rossi had placed before him. The older man was discussing some distant family in Italy with his mother, while doing the dishes. But what was interesting was the fact that the two of them were smoothly switching between Italian and English every other sentence.

It was an excellent study object.

At a pause in the conversation, Reid decided to break in; too excited not to share his observations with the two others. "Do you know what you're doing?" he asked eagerly. Rossi turned to look at him.

"Yeah, the dishes," he said shortly, but before Reid had time to react to the rebuff he continued, "But I'm guessing that's not what you're talking about. Dazzle us with facts."

Reid opened his mouth to being his explanation, but closed it again with a suspicious frown when Rossi's tone registered. "Are you being sarcastic?"

"A little," Rossi admitted, glaring at his mother as she gave his arm a smack, "but I do want to know."

For a moment Reid studied the older man to try to figure out if he was sincere or just humoring him, but then decided it didn't really matter when Rossi had given him permission to explain. "You're code-switching."

Rossi frowned for a moment, before a look of recognition came over his face. "Yeah, I guess we are."

His mother raised her eyebrows demandingly. "What is 'code-switching'?"

At Rossi's inviting gesture, Reid began explaining. "It's when an individual within the frame of a single discourse switches between different 'codes', that is, varieties. Like languages or dialects, and some linguist even count sociolects or professional jargons, and there is a certain logic in that, given that the defining characteristic of code-switching is the functional component rather than the exact varieties involved."

He paused to take a breath, but then he saw how confused Mrs. Rossi looked and he trailed off.

"A person changes language when talking," Rossi supplied. His mother frowned.

"There is a word for this?" she asked, indicating herself and Rossi with a hand wave, "When I was little they just told us we had to learn English more properly."

"That's what I was told as well, actually," Rossi added.

Reid nodded eagerly, pushing back his hair when it fell into his eyes from the gesture. "That was the general opinion until a few decades ago, but pretty much everyone now agrees that it's a strategy used in communication to express belonging or proximity or various other things."

"You see, David?" Mrs. Rossi said, "You should speak more Italian to me."

"I don't really think you can draw that conclusion," Rossi said, "And eat your sandwich, Reid."

"I don't like rye bread," Reid replied, giving Rossi an accusing look. Because the older man knew that, and there was no reason he should give it to Reid anyway. Rossi raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"You know, if I had told her," he indicated his mother, "that I didn't like what I was served when I was a kid, she would have spanked me."

Mrs. Rossi pursed her lips. "That's true. Do what David says, Spencer."

Deciding that he didn't have much of a chance of getting his way when both older people were set against him, Reid gave in and reluctantly took a bite of the sandwich. It wasn't that bad, really, but he still preferred white bread. "When did your family come here?" he asked, to take his mind off the taste.

"My parents came in 1921," Mrs. Rossi replied, "so I was born here."

"And dad came in '28 together with his parents," Rossi added and the continued without missing a beat – and without turning around, which really wasn't fair – "The pickles are included in the sandwich, Reid."

Disgruntled, Reid abandoned the dissection of his food. Just as Rossi knew he didn't like rye bread, the older man knew he didn't like pickles. At least Reid thought he did; he had mentioned it to him. But it was true that Rossi didn't remember everything he was told – most people didn't – so maybe it was just a mistake on his part and not a cruel attempt to serve Reid a combination of foods he didn't like.

"Am I allowed to say that in the future I would prefer my sandwiches without pickles?" Reid asked.

"No."

"Yes."

Rossi and his mother answered at the same time, exchanging a put out look when they realized it. At his mother's raised eyebrow, Rossi shrugged and amended himself. "All right: yes." Then he turned to his mother. "Why are you softer on everyone now than you were on me?"

"Because I was a mother then and now I am a grandmother," Mrs. Rossi replied, "so I am allowed to spoil them and leave the parenting to you."

With a long-suffering expression, Rossi threw his hands up. "Well, _grazie mille _for making my job more difficult."

His mother shrugged. "You seem to manage well enough."

"I had a good teacher," Rossi replied, his voice now completely free from irritation, and bent down to kiss his mother's cheek."The crusts too, Spencer!"

* * *

**A/N2: Here, by the way, are the chapters in "Means a Little Bit More" that includes Mrs. Rossi: 2, 7 and 12.**


	4. Rossi, Stark, Leroy

**A/N: I hope all of you who celebrate it had a nice Thanksgiving! **

**This is for Kateri, who suggested something with young Rossi and Leroy and their boss, as a follow-up to chapter 15 of "Means a Little Bit More".  
**

* * *

If someone ever asked Rossi what he had learned during his time in the FBI, a possible answer would be the entire Declaration of Independence. Because for some reason, Ezekiel Stark had a copy of it hung behind his desk, and whenever Rossi was in the man's office and didn't want to look at his boss – which was more often than he would quite have liked – he had an excellent chance to study it.

Right now, though, he was focusing more on trying to ignore his pounding headache than memorizing historical documents.

Why was drinking always such a worse idea the day after?

He could at least take some small comfort in the fact that he'd sort of had a reason. Namely, to deal with the fact that Leroy had been _crying_. Traces of it could still be seen on the man's face, Rossi noted as he glanced at his partner in crime who was standing next to him in a kind of half at attention, half relaxed stance Rossi wished he could manage half as well.

"Explain to me," Stark snapped, loud enough that Rossi had to hide a wince, "how it seemed to you that breaking into my office and stealing from me seemed like a good idea?"

"It's my fault, boss," Leroy croaked out before Rossi had time to answer – his voice showing the strain of too much booze, too many cigarettes, late-night crying and then throwing up – in a not unexpected attempt to talk down Rossi's role in their joint mess-up.

"Rossi can make his own choices," Stark replied, "and he made the choice to break into my office."

Rossi frowned and opened his mouth to ask how Stark knew that it was he who had picked the lock – they hadn't told him – but thought better of it and snapped it shut, getting a somewhat amused look from Stark.

"And I know it was you, Rossi, because unlike you Leroy was taught properly and didn't learn lock-picking from some juvie criminal in a back-alley." At Rossi's puzzled – and slightly offended, because even if it was technically true that Rossi had gotten his lock-picking lessons from an acquaintance who'd just gotten out of juvenile detention it sounded like an insult – look, he clarified. "Leroy locks after himself on reflex. The door was open when I got here."

Huh. Rossi hadn't actually noticed that about his friend, but it did make sense.

"So…" Stark continued in a drawl that somehow managed to be threatening, "Why?"

"Uh… well," Rossi began, stuttering slightly, "Alex was… upset. And I… wanted to make him feel better?"

"With bourbon?"

This time Rossi didn't manage to hide his wince at the sharp demand, and from the corner of his eye he saw Leroy wincing as well. And, more worryingly, growing a bit paler.

"Are you gonna throw up again?" Stark demanded. Leroy made a small movement of his head that was probably supposed to be interpreted as shaking, breathing deeply.

"No. Just… give me a minute."

Stark studied him intently for a moment, bushy eyebrows drawn together in a deep frown. "Go outside and wait. I'll deal with you once you're not about to pass out. Not you, Rossi. You I'm dealing with right now."

Grimacing, Rossi halted. He hadn't really thought he was included in the order, but it didn't hurt to try. If he didn't know from experience just how awful Leroy felt, he might be jealous that the man got the small reprieve Rossi wouldn't be given, but since he _did _know… Usually, Leroy's hangovers weren't worse than his, but last night he had apparently kept drinking long after Rossi, so it was understandable that he had done nothing but moan pathetically the first twenty minutes after Stark had woken them.

"So let's go through it again," Stark resumed once Leroy had closed the door behind him, "Leroy's mother paid a visit and that shook him, so you decided to steal from me and then drink until you passed out?"

"We were gonna replace it," Rossi mumbled, sticking his hands in his back-pockets as he lowered his eyes to study the pattern on his boss' carpet. He was uncomfortably familiar with that too.

"It's the principle of the thing, and you know it. Or do we need to have a talk about that?"

"No sir," Rossi replied immediately and emphatically. Because he had a pretty good idea of how the 'talk' would look.

"That's what I thought. And after you stole from me, you drank enough to practically pass out? You do know what alcohol poisoning is?"

Rossi nodded. "Yeah. But we weren't gonna drink enough for that."

"Because when you're shit-faced you're in a great state to judge that?"

"No, I guess not. But…"

"No buts, Rossi," Stark snapped, "The kind of drinking you did last night is a damn bad idea, for a lot of reasons. Did you think it was gonna help Leroy?"

"I thought…" Rossi began, but when Stark raised his eyebrows – obviously skeptical of whatever excuse Rossi was going to offer – he bit his lip for a moment before continuing. "I didn't know what else to do."

"So you got drunk?" Stark shook his head, his lips pressed together. "You know better, David."

Rossi almost winced, this time not from his boss' whip-like voice aggravating his headache, but from the fact that Stark used his first name together with the soft, disappointed tone in his voice. He would probably have preferred yelling to that.

"Yeah," he mumbled quietly, "I guess. But he was _crying_, boss!"

Stark's weathered face softened. "I know. And that's the only reason your butt isn't part of this conversation, by the way. But you could have called me, or come over."

"Uh… I guess I could have done that," Rossi admitted, a bit sheepishly. Why didn't things like that occur to him _before _he got himself in trouble? "So… can I go now?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door, tilting his head in question.

The look he got in reply had him actively stopping himself from squirming. "You think we're done with this discussion?"

"A guy can hope…" Rossi mumbled under his breath, but at Stark's raised eyebrow he continued. "But I'm guessing we're not."

"Correct. How much do you think that bottle cost?"

A bit puzzled as to where this was going, Rossi tilted his head thoughtfully. "I dunno. Twenty-five dollars?"

"That's about right. And do you know what the federal minimum wage is?"

Suddenly seeing where Stark was heading with this, Rossi reflexively took a step back. "I can repay you, boss. In cash."

"Doing that won't teach you anything. You'll repay me in manual labor," Stark stated, "At two fifty an hour twenty-five dollars pans out to twelve and a half hours. So thirteen, rounded off."

"Between the two of us, right?" Rossi said, gesturing toward where Leroy had to be. Stark just _looked_ at him, expressing more clearly than he could have with any words what a ridiculous idea that was. Rossi raised his hands defensively. "Worth a try."

Stark scoffed, shaking his head with a fondly exasperated look. "Get back to work before I change my mind and tan your sorry hide. Send Leroy in, if he looks like he can stand up without puking."

Rossi nodded and turned to leave. But just before he pressed down the handle to open the door, he stopped and gave his boss a vaguely pleading look. "Boss? You're gonna fix things with Alex's mom, right?"

Giving him a small smile, Stark nodded. "Yeah, son, I'll fix it."


	5. Leroy, Stark

**A/N: Some of you asked for a continuation of the last chapter with Leroy and Stark talking, and here it is. **

**Also, SilverWolf asked if I had any actors in mind concerning my OCs, and some people have asked before, and I have now posted some pics on my livejournal, which is linked on my profile page. Check them out if you like, or keep picturing everyone the same as before! :)**

* * *

"How's your lip?" Stark asked.

Leroy raised a hand to feel at the swelling, wincing a little as his fingers made contact with the area still sore from the slap his mother had given him the day before."Better than my head."

"Uh-huh. And how's the rest of you?"

"Well, I think I might have strained a muscle from all the throwing up I did and…" Leroy trailed off as his boss raised a bushy eyebrow in obvious skepticism. He sighed deeply and spread his hands in dejection, keeping his eyes on the floor in front of him, "How should I be?" he asked, with a short hollow laugh, "I'm a disappointment to my mother."

Stark was silent for a few seconds, just looking at Leroy with his eyebrows drawn together, before he answered. "But only to her."

"Well, she's the only mother I have."

"But not the only parent."

Leroy's eyes quickly darted up to throw a look at Stark, a small hesitant smile on his face. "Thanks," he mumbled, "But… that doesn't really change that I want _her_ approval."

"What'd she say to you?"

"She said…" Leroy shrugged, waving his hand in the air, "stuff. It doesn't matter."

Stark raised an eyebrow again. "I think it does."

With a deep sigh, Leroy leant back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. He didn't really want to relive his mother's words; it wasn't anything new and it shouldn't really hurt him, but… it did. A lot, for some reason. Still, he doubted Stark asked because he wanted to make him feel bad, so he slowly began talking. "She said that I should give up this 'ridiculous rebellion' and come back to France, marry some rich heiress and either rejoin the military or go into the civil service."

"And when you told her you wouldn't…?"

Leroy bit his lip for a moment. "She said that if she could she'd disinherit me, that I'm betraying the family, that I'm disgracing my name." He hesitated, swallowing, before he continued in a whisper. "That my father would be disappointed in me."

"Alexander," Stark said seriously. Leroy immediately turned his full attention to him, straightening in his chair to meet the man's eyes, "Do you want me to tell you something? You won't particularly like hearing it."

This time it was Leroy who raised an eyebrow as well as tilting his head in question. To be honest, he was a little alarmed by this sudden development; the fact that Stark actually asked before telling him meant it was probably something the older man thought would hurt Leroy, rather than just make him uncomfortable because his boss had no compunctions about that.

"Yes," he said finally, "Tell me."

"The kind of love and approval you want from your mother," Stark said, "you wouldn't have gotten no matter what you did or what you became."

Leroy frowned. "If I had only…"

"She would have found something else to be disappointed about," Stark interrupted him.

"You can't know that!" Leroy shot back. The older man looked very unimpressed with the tone of his voice and after enduring less than a second of his stern glare, Leroy lowered his eyes in defeat and mumbled something that with some goodwill could be interpreted as an apology.

"And I _can_ know that, because for the almost thirty years you did everything your mother wanted you to she wasn't any closer to approving than she is now."

That was probably true, Leroy had to admit. From the first time he had realized his life was already laid out for him, Leroy had fulfilled the expectations on him; he'd gotten good grades, gotten his degree, joined the army, become a captain and done everything his country asked of him.

And his mother… had nodded with chilly assent when he was home for dinner, introduced him to eligible young women and asked after his next promotion.

"You're probably right…" Leroy admitted, "But… that doesn't really make me feel any better."

"I wouldn't really expect it to," Stark said. Then he sighed. "Look, I realize this probably isn't much comfort to you right now, but this is all on your mother. Anyone reasonable would be proud of you, son."

Leroy quickly looked up at Stark, his head still bowed, to judge if he meant what Leroy thought he did. From the way he met Leroy's eyes straight on with a sincere expression, he did. That _he _was proud of Leroy. "Thanks. That… actually does make me feel a bit better."

"Good, because our next subject is probably gonna make you feel worse again."

With a grimace, Leroy looked down at the carpet again. "It won't happen again."

"It better not," Stark replied sternly, "Did Rossi tell you what I said about punishment?"

"No, but, uh…" Leroy threw a hopeful look toward the door, "You didn't spank him."

"No, I didn't. Because he was trying to deal with seeing you crying."

"Yeah… I'm sorry about that."

"About crying?" Stark asked, both looking and sounding very disapproving. Which made Leroy guess he'd probably said the wrong thing.

"About crying in front of Dave?" The critical look on his boss's face didn't disappear and with a faint frown, Leroy continued hesitantly. "About crying in front of Dave and not making sure he didn't not-deal with it by getting wasted?"

Stark sighed and shook his head. "How 'bout you just be sorry for your own mistakes? Rossi's a kid, but he can make his own mistakes. And trust me, your own are quite enough for you to worry about."

"That's what I was afraid of…" Leroy muttered. Stark scoffed.

"You should have thought of that yesterday," he said, then turned businesslike, "So, for the bottle you _stole_, you'll pay me back."

"Oh," Leroy said, happily surprised at getting off so easily.

"With manual labor."

"Oh…"

He couldn't keep his voice from sounding crestfallen, getting a chuckle and a headshake from Stark. "So that's the _stealing_ of my booze. Let's talk about the _drinking_ of it."

Leroy closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"That kind of drinking is dangerous, Alexander. You know that."

"Yeah… I do," Leroy replied, hanging his head. When Stark didn't reply for several seconds, he dared a look at the older man, "Are you going to… punish me for it?"

"Yep," Stark replied, "But not with a spanking, even though I probably should."

"Really?" Leroy asked and looked up at Stark again, this time hopefully.

Stark raised an eyebrow. "I'm not completely stone-hearted, kid. I can make allowances for how shaken up you were," he said. "You know the financial fraud unit are redoing their filing system? I think they could use some help."

With a groan, Leroy let his head fall back. That was not what he had hoped to hear. It was better than a spanking, of course, but there were a lot of things that he would have preferred over organizing old files. Like weeding out gardens, scraping paint off fences, running laps…

"Understood," he said anyway, because arguing was probably not in his best interests right now, "When?"

"This weekend," Stark replied, "And Leroy? If you wanna see your mother, you take me with you."

Leroy raised his eyebrows. "She's my mother, boss, not a criminal. I'm pretty sure I can handle seeing her on my own."

Stark gave him an even look. "Are you arguing with me?"

"No sir," Leroy replied instantly, "Not in the slightest."

"Didn't think so. Are you okay to go get some work done now? This _is_ a workplace."

Feeling his cheeks heating, Leroy nodded and got to his feet with an apologetic smile. "Yah. Uh…" he hesitated, not sure whether voicing his next query would be pushing his luck a bit too much, "Do you mind if I go buy some cigarettes?"

"Don't you have a pack in your desk?"

Grimacing, Leroy raised a hand to rub at his neck. "Uh… I might have smoked a bit too much last night?"

Stark gave him an incredulous look. "Are you _trying_ to change my mind about takin' you over my knee?"

Leroy raised his hands defensively, quickly backing toward the door. "No sir. I'll just wait until lunch. Or I'll steal – _borrow, _I mean – some from Jones. Or I'll just…"

"Get out," Stark interrupted him, pointing to the door, "I swear, you two kids are gonna give me gray hair."

"You already have it," Leroy muttered, but he wasn't brave enough to stay long enough for the answer; he quickly stepped out of the office and closed the door. He still heard Stark's chuckle though, and it was with a slight smile he walked over to his desk, ignoring the skeptical look his cheerful expression got him from Rossi.


	6. Hotch, the Leroys, Rossi, Jack

**A/N: This is for Eeltje who asked for something with the Leroys visiting Hotch at the hospital after "Route 66". I hope you (an everyone else) like it!**

* * *

Leroy's entrance into the small hospital room was characteristically dramatic; Hotch had barely had time to register his presence before the man was at his bedside, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "_Je jure devant Dieu_," he muttered, "if you do something like this again I will ground you for the rest of your life."

Hotch pulled away from him, raising his eyebrows. "You do realize I didn't develop internal bleeding on purpose?"

With an exaggerated shrug, Leroy straightened. "Foyet is dead so I can't kill him and I can't very well ground chance, so…"

"That doesn't really make any sense," Hotch retorted skeptically, not sure whether he should be laughing at the Frenchman or be worried that he was serious. Leroy shrugged again.

"I don't have to make sense."

"Also, he doesn't _know_ how to make sense." It was Jo, speaking from the doorway with a tolerant smile at her husband. Completely ignoring the glare the gibe earned her, she turned to Hotch. "Hello, sweetie. How do you feel?"

"Relatively okay," Hotch replied honestly, knowing that a full 'okay' wouldn't be accepted, "Considering the circumstances."

Jo hummed in reply and joined her husband at Hotch's bedside, reaching for the chart hanging there at the same time as she distractedly patted Hotch's cheek. She read through it with a neutral expression before putting it back. "Everything looks fine here. How's the pain?"

"They insisted on giving me some painkillers," Hotch replied – not bothering to specify that it wasn't so much the doctors insisting as the knowledge that Rossi would inevitably find out that they insisted, "so it's fine."

"Good," Jo said, once again stroking his cheek, this time with her attention turned entirely on him, "And you're okay with Dave leaving for the case?"

Hotch nodded. "Of course. It's what I would have told him to do."

The couple fixed him with very similar considering looks, but soon seemed to come to the same conclusion; Leroy shrugged, and Jo ran a hand over Hotch's hair. "If you're sure. Do you know when they'll come home?"

"Pretty soon. Dave said he'd pick Jack up from school and then come here. He's excited to see you."

"Good. We have a gift for him. Jack, that is. Not Dave," Leroy clarified. Jo smiled and stroked his cheek.

"You have a gift for him too, though," she said, "and for you, Aaron."

"Just admit you've got gifts for everyone!" Rossi broke in from the doorway, Jack next to him holding his hand.

Leroy glared at Rossi opened his mouth, looking as if he would protest, but then closed it again, frowning. "I do, actually," he admitted reluctantly. Then he turned to Jack with a wide smile. "_Bonjour, mon cher petit_. How are you?"

Jack happily let the man sweep him up in a hug. "I'm fine, Uncle Alex. It's Dad who's hurt."

"School is going well?" Leroy asked, kissing Jack's cheek before he passed him on to his wife.

"Uh-huh. We're learning about the Stone Age."

"That sounds exciting," Jo said, she too kissing Jack and stroking his hair before she let him climb up on the bed next to Hotch.

"It is!" Jack agreed before he hugged Hotch, "Hi, Daddy."

"Hi, buddy," Hotch replied with the wide smile Jack always brought to his face, "So, did you hear that Uncle Alex and Aunt Jo have a gift for you?"

"Yes, that's right!" Leroy said happily, but then frowned as he looked around the room searchingly, "Where is it, _chérie_?"

Jo rolled her eyes and gestured toward the door. "In the bag. Where you put it."

"Oh. Yes." The man got up to retrieve the bag, pausing to exchange a hug with Rossi on the way, who took over the place at Hotch's bedside. After a quick kiss to Jo's cheek, he turned to Hotch.

"How're you feeling?" he asked, looking intently Hotch as if he was trying to see through any façade he might have put up and see what was going on inside of him.

"I'm fine," Hotch replied. No-one in the room made any move to correct him, probably mindful of Jack's presence.

"Good. I sent Garcia home, and the rest of the team will probably drop by tomorrow if you're up to it."

"Then they will get their presents then," Leroy announced, coming over to Jack with a book held out, "This is for you."

Jack eagerly accepted it. "Thank you!" he turned his attention to the cover, his young face scrunched up in concentration as he read the unfamiliar title. "The… the lion, the witch and the… wa- the wardrobe. The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe."

Leroy nodded. "It's the first book in a series," he said, reaching out to lightly touch Jack's cheek, "Well, the second really, but this one's the best to start with. I wanted to buy you all of them, but…" He trailed off, giving his wife a meaningful look.

"But buying seven books for someone you're not even sure will like them is ridiculous," she filled in, "You and your dad can read it and then let us know if you like it."

"And then I'll get the rest of them for you!" Leroy added happily.

Rossi scoffed. "And the movies, and memorabilia, and a trip to England, and a lion..."

"Are you implying I'm too indulgent?" Leroy demanded, eyebrows raised.

"No. I'm stating it explicitly. Admit it; if Jack or Dad over there asks you for something nicely, you can't say no."

"Yes, I can!" Leroy sounded indignant, glaring at Rossi who responded with a doubtful tilt of the head.

"Right," he said, and then continued with a French accent, "Oh, you like the Beatles, Aaron? Just let me read up on my necromancy and I'll arrange a private concert. Are you sure you don't want to own a kingdom? Or be president? What about just a state?"

Leroy interrupted him. "Should I take this to mean that you don't want your gift?"

"Depends on what it is," Rossi retorted. Leroy glared.

"You're not getting it," he announced after a beat, before he turned to Hotch, "We thought we'd stay for a while, spend some time with you while you're resting. And we can come and watch your soccer practice." He nodded to Jack.

"We have a match on Saturday!" the boy said happily, "You can come to that!"

"Of course we will," Jo said, running a hand over Jack's hair.

"We wouldn't miss it," Leroy supplied before he turned back to Hotch, "So how long are you going to take off work?"

Hotch shrugged, hiding a grimace as the movement caused a spike of pain to shoot through him. "Maybe a week."

"A week?" Rossi echoed, sounding incredulous. Hotch hesitated.

"Two weeks?" he tried, but when got nothing but three almost identical looks of disapproval and skepticism he amended himself with a small grimace, "Three?"

"Make it twenty-five days," Rossi said, "You and Jack could go visit Beth for a while. Or have her come here. Alex and Jo have only met her once."

"And we like her," Jo added, "Think about it, honey."

"As long as you take it easy, as well," Rossi said, crossing his arms and fixing Hotch with a look that contained a clear threat. Jack nodded from his place curled up next to Hotch.

"The doctor said you have to relax, Dad," he said seriously.

"I will," Hotch promised both of them, "We can read your new book. And maybe there'll be time for some paperwork, to take some work off you guys."

Rossi raised an eyebrow. "Yeeah… Not gonna happen."

Hotch hadn't really thought his ploy would work, so he didn't argue – in part also because he didn't want to do it in front of Jack – and turned to the Leroys. "Well, it's great to have you here," he said, "You must be hungry from the trip, though. Maybe you could take Jack down to the cafeteria to get something to eat?"

Leroy exchanged a quick glance with his wife before he nodded to Hotch with a smile, probably realizing that the words were just a thinly veiled excuse to get some time alone with Rossi. "We will. But not the cafeteria. I'm not drinking hospital coffee. Do you want me to bring something back to you?"

"He's not supposed to have either coffee or anything too heavy," Jo said sternly.

Putting an arm around her waist, Leroy pressed a kiss to his wife's temple. "I do love you, _ma belle femme_, but sometimes I don't like that you're a doctor."

"You don't like that I'm sensible, is what you mean. Jack sweetie, let's go. I want to hear more about the Stone Age."

Excited at the prospect of sharing his new knowledge – and confident that his uncle could take care of his dad – Jack jumped of the bed and hurried over to the couple, slipping his hand in Jo's hand as they left the room. "Bye, Daddy!"

Once the trio had closed the door behind them, Rossi turned to Hotch. "What's up?"

Drawing a deep breath, Hotch closed his eyes. "I'm not sure I want to talk about this, Dave, but I wanted to tell you."

"Okay," Rossi said slowly, "Tell me, and if you want we'll leave it at that."

Hotch nodded gratefully, swallowing. "When I was... out, I… I hallucinated."

Rossi frowned. "That's perfectly normal. You know that."

"Yeah, I know. It's not that. I… saw Haley."

"Okay."

"She said things to me," Hotch began and quickly continued when Rossi's eyebrows drew together and he opened his mouth, probably assuming that Hotch's subconscious had come up with bad things. "She said… she told me to be happy, more or less."

The older man's frown faded. "For once, I agree with her."

With a small smile, Hotch nodded. "I knew you'd say that. And… maybe you're right. I just… wanted to let you know. And also…" He hesitated for a moment, vaguely embarrassed about this part. "Well, I saw her in a movie theatre. And… you drove me there."

The soft smile on Rossi's face immediately drove away whatever suspicions Hotch may have had that the man would be freaked out by appearing in Hotch's subconscious. "It seems I've managed to get some things through your thick skull, then," he said, lightly running his knuckles over Hotch's cheek, "It's true, though – what it means – and not just a product of your subconscious. I'll take you anywhere you need to go to be happy."

"I know," Hotch said, completely honestly. Because he could believe that now, even if it had taken him fifteen years to realize it.

"Good," Rossi said, smiling at him as he distractedly adjusted Hotch's covers, "So, you wanna tell me more? I can do a Freudian dream analysis."

Scoffing at the offer – Hotch had heard Rossi do Freudian psychoanalyses before, on challenges from Gideon, and the older man was almost disturbingly good at finding innuendos in anything – Hotch shook his head. "No thank you. I really don't need a list of signs of my castration anxiety."

"Your call." Rossi shrugged, looking as if he was trying very hard not to smile. "But the offer to talk is open even without the analysis, you know."

"Yeah. I know. Maybe later. I… want to think about it a bit, first."

Rossi nodded. "Of course. Let me fill you in on the case, instead."

He did, quickly and efficiently recounting the facts, and when the Leroys and Jack returned twenty minutes later – with a Danish that Leroy must was enlisted Jack's help in convincing Jo to get Hotch – they had moved on to other, more pleasant, subjects.


	7. Reid, Gideon

**A/N: Some change from all the Rossi. :)**

* * *

"Why?" Reid brow was furrowed as he looked at Gideon questioningly. The older man gave him a bland look in return.

"Because I say so."

"But it doesn't make any sense!"

And it really didn't.

He was sitting at Gideon's kitchen table with a pile of paper in front of him and a pen lying next to it, put there by the older man. And he had just been ordered to write out 'I will eat three meals a day unless circumstances really don't allow for it' two hundred times.

It was one of the rules Gideon had given him and apparently the man thought he had broken it. Which, if Reid was honest with himself, was probably a justified belief; he _had_ sort of skipped a few meals over the last few days, too immersed in his reading to break for food and since history didn't seem to classify as an exception to Gideon's rule, here he was: being made to write out lines.

"It doesn't have to make sense to you," Gideon told him calmly, not even looking up from his newspaper. "As long as you do it."

Reid's frown deepened and he pressed his lips together. He wasn't sure what he felt about this development. It wasn't a form of punishment Gideon had used before, and not one Reid had expected. The senior profiler had spanked him, grounded him, made him stand in the corner and he had threatened to wash his mouth out with soap.

But this, he had never as much as hinted at.

It was, he supposed, better than a spanking, but it was also… ridiculous. Still, he had no intention of disobeying Gideon – especially when he was already in trouble – so with a deep sigh he picked up the pen and began his task.

He hadn't even written the sentence twenty times when he began to fidget. What did Gideon hope to accomplish by making him do this? It wasn't as if he could think that it would make Reid remember the rule any better, and Reid knew the older man didn't believe in subconscious suggestion.

"This is boring," he announced, looking up from his task to frown at Gideon. The man looked back evenly.

"It's not supposed to be fun," he said, "Get back to work."

Reid frowned at him for another moment, before he pursed his lips and did as he was told. _I – will – eat – three – meals_…

"Mind your handwriting," Gideon spoke up, "If it's unreadable you have to write it again."

To demonstrate how much he disliked that instruction, Reid sighed deeply. If he had to write neatly enough to meet Gideon's standards it would take a lot longer. And since the older man so unfair and unreasonable, he'd probably take the slightest as an excuse to make Reid write it again.

Ten minutes later, he looked up again, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "This is _stupid_."

Gideon looked up at him from over the top of his reading glasses, raising his eyebrows in silent questions.

"What could I possibly learn from this?" Reid spread his hands to show at the papers in front of him.

Gideon's expression didn't change. "What have I said happens when you break a rule?" he asked calmly.

Reid frowned. "You'll punish me, but…"

Without batting an eye, Gideon continued evenly. "And did you break a rule?"

"Yeees," Reid replied, "but…"

"Is it up to you to choose your punishment?"

"No," Reid conceded, and with a sigh decided that he wouldn't manage to even _begin_ this argument with Gideon, let alone win it.

"Well then," Gideon said, returning his eyes to the newspaper and turning the page. Reid glared at him for a while longer, hoping that if he imitated Hotch well enough Gideon would feel the glare and look up. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do if he succeeded, though; it had already been proven that he couldn't win the argument.

So with another sigh he picked up the pen again and went back to writing.

This time he made it to fifty lines before he became too restless to continue. He looked up again, opening his mouth.

"Spencer," Gideon broke him off evenly, "One word and I'll put you over my knee."

"But…"

"_One word_," Gideon repeated inexorably. Reid snapped his mouth shut, pressing his lips together. He would have been tempted to argue despite the threat if he thought he stood any chance of convincing Gideon this was a stupid punishment, but since the arguing would almost certainly lead to nothing but him finishing the lines with a sore butt, he refrained.

It really was unfair. All this for skipping a few meals? It wasn't as if Reid didn't _know_ how to stop for food; it was just boring. But if Gideon was going to be this unreasonable about it, of course he'd do it in the future.

_I – will – eat – three – meals – a day – unless… _

Reid sighed. "Giiideon… I've done a hundred and fifty lines. Isn't that enough?"

Reid was for some reason vaguely annoyed that the look Gideon gave him was still completely unfazed, just mildly curious as he peered at Reid from over his newspaper. "Do you have an eidetic memory, Spencer?"

"Yeees…"

"So you remember how many lines I said you would write?"

Frowning, Reid glared at Gideon for a while. "Two hundred…" he mumbled sullenly, "But…"

"That was a lot more than one word," Gideon pointed out, "You want to reconsider continuing?"

With a deep sigh, Reid reconsidered. He could do fifty more lines, without pointing out how silly this was.

"I'm done!" he announced an eternity later, putting down the pen with perhaps a bit more force than necessary, "Two hundred lines." He defeated the impulse to add a defiant 'hah!' opting instead to just glare – maybe a little defiantly – at Gideon.

The older man wasn't the slightest bit affected by the glare though; he folded up his newspaper and held out a hand. "Good. Let me see."

Reid hesitated. "It's all readable," he said.

"I'm sure it is. So let me see it."

Sighing, Reid handed him the papers, twitching nervously as Gideon leafed through them, expression unchanging. "Well, it's all… mostly readable. Let's say it's done." He gave Reid a small smile and handed back the papers. "Are you going to be skipping meals again?"

"No. But you could have just told me not to."

Gideon raised his eyebrows. "Doesn't making a rule about it qualify as telling you?"

"Well… I guess," Reid conceded reluctantly, "But after I didn't, you could have just told me not to do it again."

"This _is_ telling you. Just with some added reinforcement. And if I have to tell you again, I'll do it while you're over my knee."

Deciding not to comment on that, Reid snatched the papers back from Gideon. "Can I throw these away now? And make some coffee?"

Smiling, Gideon nodded. "Sure. And make yourself a sandwich."

Reid nodded, quickly bouncing up from the chair and heading over to investigate the contents of Gideon's fridge. The older man normally didn't have anything Reid particularly liked – such as peanut butter or chocolate spread – but there might be something he could enjoy.

After finding nothing, he turned back to Gideon with his best pleading look. "Can't you make me pancakes?"

"In the middle of the afternoon?" Gideon sounded skeptical, looking at Reid with raised eyebrows.

"Please?"

"No. But you can make them yourself if you like."

"I'm not sure I can, actually."

"You'll never know if you don't try. There's a book of recipes over on the counter," Gideon said, nodding toward it. After a moment's hesitation, Reid fetched it. "Look in the index at the end. The recipe should tell you everything you need to know."

Reid quickly looked up, giving the older man an uncertain look. "But you'll stay here, right?"

"Of course," Gideon said, reaching for the culture section of the paper, "I wouldn't want you to burn down my kitchen. Now, start with getting all the ingredients out…"


	8. Garcia, Rossi, his mother, Hotch, Jack

**A/N: Some more of Rossi's mom. Cooking, as always. :)**

* * *

"All I'm saying," Rossi said, sounding very exasperated "is that there's no law that you can't have garlic _in _the gnocchi."

A stern female voice replied in rapid Italian and then added: "And why don't you speak Italian to me?"

"We're not in Italy," Rossi retorted, "and besides, Aaron doesn't understand Italian. It's not polite to him."

"Are you telling me what's polite, Davide?" Garcia would bet anything that the woman speaking had crossed her arms, or was possibly wagging a finger, and she felt a wave of sympathy for Rossi at having grown up with a woman who could sound so thoroughly disapproving. Because this was obviously the profiler's mother, something Garcia surmised not only because she'd been invited to meet Mrs. Rossi, but also because she couldn't imagine anyone else speaking like that to the agent.

Rossi mumbled something inaudible under his breath, but then answered properly in a sweet voice that was probably supposed to sound innocent. "_Certo che no_, Mamma. The very thought is foreign to me."

The "humph" he got in reply was far from convinced and Garcia and Hotch arrived to the kitchen in time to see the old woman open her mouth to probably continue scolding her son, but they both turned toward the doorway when Hotch cleared his throat. A smile immediately broke out on Rossi's face and he walked over to Garcia, kissing her cheek.

"Hi, kitten," he greeted before he led her further into the kitchen with a hand on her back, "This is my mother. Mamma: Penelope Garcia, our computer genius."

Garcia smiled widely – only partly at Rossi's praise; mostly from finally getting to meet the fabled woman – and happily accepted her embrace. "It's absolutely wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Rossi. I've heard so much about you."

"Mostly complaints, if I know my son," Mrs. Rossi replied, shooting a good-natured glare at the man, "But it's a pleasure to meet you, too. I don't understand how, but you're a great help to David and Aaron."

"She is," Hotch agreed quietly.

"And not only on the job," Rossi added, pressing another kiss to her cheek before he moved over to the stove, "So, we decided to use garlic, yes?"

The only reply he got to that was a look, but it was enough to make him raise his hands defensively. "Worth a try. I guess we'll do it the boring way. It's not like there's any point in serving something everyone hasn't already eaten a thousand times."

His mother said something to him in Italian that was almost certainly a reprimand, but Rossi ignored her and instead turned back to Garcia. "So, I promised you a cooking lesson from my mom. Mamma, she's at your disposal."

"David!" Mrs. Rossi scolded, "She's a guest in your home and you're making her work?"

Rossi shrugged. "She's not a guest: she's family."

That was the first argument that actually seemed to work on the woman; she shrugged and put a hand on Garcia's shoulder. "Come and wash your hands, then. Have you ever made gnocchi before?"

Garcia shook her head. "No, ma'am. But I've eaten it."

"Then you know the basics? We boil the potatoes and then we mix them with the flour. Then we roll the gnocchi before we boil them."

"I think that's what constitutes the basics, Mamma," Rossi drawled, stepping out of the way of his mother's swatting hand with a skill that suggested a lot of practice, "Do you ladies mind if I leave you? I need to get some work done. Reid talked me into co-writing a paper with him, and I can't understand half of what he's written."

"I need to go too," Hotch broke in, "I'm picking Jack up from a friend's."

"Of course!" Mrs. Rossi immediately agreed, shooing Hotch toward the door with a hand on his back, "Bring my Gionino to me quickly! You may go too, David." The words spoken to her son were considerably more dismissive than the warm goodbye to Hotch.

Rossi scoffed as he left, calling back over his shoulder before he had disappeared into the living room. "You know, this is why I don't introduce you to my friends. You always like them more than you like me."

"That's because they are all more well-behaved."

"Only around you!" Rossi shot back, and then continued in a quieter mutter that was still – probably intentionally – audible in the kitchen, "'Cause they're terrified of you."

Mrs. Rossi ignored her son – something, Garcia was beginning to think, she was very good at – and returned to Garcia's side, putting a hand on her back. "So, we will begin with the potatoes. Will you boil them? The entire package. And I will start with the tomato sauce."

"Yes, ma'am," Garcia replied smartly. She was interrupted by Rossi shouting from the living room, where he had started up his laptop.

"Don't ma'am her, Garcia, or she'll start insisting I do it too!"

"Well, it wouldn't hurt you to show some respect to your mother!" Mrs. Rossi called back.

"There are a hell of a lot of things that wouldn't hurt me. Doesn't mean I need to do them."

"_Bada a come parli!_"The words were obviously a rebuke of some kind and whatever they meant they served their purpose of shutting Rossi up, which was quite impressive.

"Should I scrub them?" Garcia asked in the ensuing silence. Mrs. Rossi shook her head.

"No, we will peel them when they are cooked," she said, watching approvingly as Garcia filled a pot with water and put it on the stove. Garcia enjoyed her approval, even if it was over such a simple thing as boiling water. Then the elderly woman looked around the kitchen with a small frown, before she again called out to Rossi. "_Dove è il tuo basilico, Davide_?"

"_Nella finestra_."

"_Va bene_. Penelope, my dear, will you start chopping tomatoes?"

* * *

"Nonna!" Jack ran into the kitchen, letting Mrs. Rossi sweep him up in a tight embrace. Hotch followed after him, more slowly and carrying his son's rucksack.

"Don't run in the house, Jack," he chided softly.

"Sorry, Daddy," Jack said, giving his father an apologetic look. Hotch smiled.

"That's okay. Just remember it next time, okay? We stopped and bought some pastries on the way here, Mrs. Rossi," he then said to the old woman still holding Jack in an embrace. She raised an eyebrow, giving Hotch and indulgent look.

"And you want to know if I would mind you having them with the afternoon coffee?"

Hotch gave her a wide, unguarded smile that Garcia almost never saw from him. "They taste best when they're fresh."

Mrs. Rossi pursed her lips and gave him an exasperated look. Then she scoffed. "Very well. Put on the coffee. The gnocchi can wait a while."

"I'll get Uncle Dave!" Jack exclaimed excitedly, probably eager to eat whatever he and his dad had bought. Nevertheless, he stopped to embrace Garcia on his way to the living room. "Hi, Aunt Penny."

"I hope this is not a habit, Aaron," Mrs. Rossi scolded, half teasingly, when Jack was out of the room. Hotch raised his eyebrows.

"It's not. And besides, Alex eats cookies for breakfast. Don't I have some room to maneuver?"

"I've given up on that ridiculous man. One more scoop of coffee, Aaron caro."

"Yeah, none of your sock juice," Rossi agreed, entering the room, one hand holding Jack's and the other massaging his temple with a suffering expression, "How can Reid possibly think it's a good idea to include a half-page quote in German without any translation?" Then he turned to Hotch. "What kind of pastries did you get?"

"Danishes and cinnamon rolls."

"From Giorgio's?"

"Yeees."

"Atta boy."

Hotch rolled his eyes, looking as if he was trying very hard not to smile – and not entirely succeeding. It gave Garcia a warm and fuzzy feeling: to see her normally so serious boss-man relax and allow himself to just be himself without the responsibilities of being Unit Chief. That it included delicious pastries was just a welcome bonus.


	9. Leroy, Jo, Stark

**A/N: LOTRjunkie wondered if Jo and Stark had met and and that led to this little thing about their first meeting. **

* * *

"Isn't me who's supposed to be nervous?" Jo asked, mild amusement clear in her voice as she reached out to lightly touch the side of her boyfriend's face.

Alex grimaced. "Well, it won't really matter to you if you don't like each other. But it will to me."

"It _would_ matter to me as well," Jo replied, "And I'm sure I'll like him. Whether he'll like me, though..."

"Oh, he'll love you. There's no reason not to," Alex said quickly, flashing her the smile that made her fall a little more in love with him every time, "But… he's a little brusque sometimes, you know? And… kind of old fashioned."

"Is that a euphemism for sexist?" Jo asked mildly, getting a small embarrassed smile in return.

"I wouldn't go that far, but… he was raised in a different time."

"As long as he doesn't have an apoplexy over a female doctor I can handle it. I'm sure I'll like him." If only for your sake, she added to herself.

Because the relationship her boyfriend had with Ezekiel Stark, the man he was about to introduce her to, was far more than just that of a boss and a subordinate; from what Alex had told her, it seemed more like that of a father and a son. And since Alex had never even met his biological father, Jo liked the relationship.

Even if certain aspects of it… were a bit unexpected.

"I hope you will," Alex said seriously, before he smiled again and leant over to kiss Jo. She allowed him to quickly press his lips to hers, but then batted him away.

"Please keep your eyes on the road, darling."

Alex did as instructed, in fact driving with considerably more care than he usually did. At least for a few minutes; then he seemed to grow bored with it and returned to his normal speeding and taking corners too sharply.

One advantage of his reckless driving was that they reached their destination quickly. It was a two-storey house in one of the well-to-do suburbs, with a well tended front yard and a picket fence around it. Very all-American.

Pulling up at the side of the road, Alex got out of the car, holding out his hand for Jo with a smile. "Well, let's go."

Before Jo had time to reply, the door of the house opened and a man stepped out. He was of average height, thin and wiry and had thick white hair. He looked to be in his fifties, but it was the lines on his weathered face that betrayed his age rather than his body.

"Hey boss," Alex greeted him, "Meet Doctor Joanne Peterson. Jo: my boss, Stark."

The man took Jo's outstretched hand in a firm grip. "Nice to meet you, Doc."

"It's nice to meet you too, sir," Jo replied. Letting go of her hand and leading them into the house, Stark waved a hand.

"Just Stark, please. Take a seat."

He gestured to the couch in the living room and with a smile Jo took a seat. Stark sat down opposite her, but Alex remained on his feet, shifting a bit awkwardly.

"I'll… go put on some coffee," he said. To give you some time to speak without me around, added implicitly.

"I've heard a lot about you," Stark said once the younger man had disappeared into the kitchen. Jo smiled.

"Same here."

"Good things, I hope?"

Jo inclined her head. "Alex really looks up to you," she said, then continued more coolly, "I hope you're not taking advantage of that."

The man's thick eyebrows drew together in a confused frown, before he seemed to understand what she was speaking about.

That he used corporal punishment as a form of discipline on Alex.

Her boyfriend had told her when one night she noticed him unable to sit still and she had pushed him about what was wrong, worried when he at first dodged her queries. 'My boss spanked me' hadn't exactly been an answer she'd expected. And also one she couldn't quite decide how she felt about. In a way, her instincts as a doctor told her that anything hurtful had to be bad, but on the other hand she couldn't really deny that the way Alex spoke about it suggested it was something he agreed to, and something he was – in some way – grateful for.

But she wanted to check for herself, because even though he was he was a more than competent agent and ex-soldier, Alex didn't always seem to know how to take care of himself.

"Lady," Stark began, but then amended himself with a wry smile, "Doctor. If you're asking whether I'm hurting him, you should know that that pretty boyfriend of yours could beat me in a fight without even making an effort. I couldn't do anything to him against his will."

Jo smiled – mostly at the fondness in the man's voice as he spoke of Alex as 'that pretty boyfriend of yours' – and inclined her head. "I hope so. Because I don't like the idea of anyone hurting him."

A corner of Stark's mouth rose in a small crooked smile. "Neither do I," he said. He looked as if he might be about to say something more, but Alex appeared in the doorway.

"Coffee's on," he said and then hesitated, "So…"

"Your lady and I are gonna get along just fine, kid," Stark drawled in response to the unasked question, "I've just promised her that when I tan your hide it's with your permission."

Alex blushed adorably, and grimaced. "'Permission' is a strong word," he said and then, suddenly, smiled, "Aw… you were concerned about me."

He leant on the back of a chair with crossed arms as he teased Jo with a bright smile, his eyes full of amusement. Jo just scoffed, trying not to blush as he continued. Because the tone of his voice was far sultrier than was appropriate for anywhere but the bedroom.

"My brave warrior lady, taking on the big bad wolf to protect the defenseless foreigner."

"Am I the 'big bad wolf' in this simile?" Stark demanded.

"Not just in the simile," Alex shot back quickly. Then he turned to Jo, smile now sincere, "You don't need to worry about me, chérie. In fact, _please_ don't worry about me; it's bad for my masculine self-image."

Jo raised her eyebrows. "And being spanked isn't?"

Pleased at the fact that it was now he who was blushing, Jo gave Alex a sweet smile. Stark joined in her amusement, turning to Alex. "I like her already."

Narrowing his eyes, Alex muttered something at them in French before he turned around and headed back to the kitchen. "I'll get the coffee."

The look on Stark's face as he followed the younger man's retreating figure was one of pure fondness, and Jo filed away most of her concerns. His next words took care of the rest of them.

"He's head-over-heels in love with you, y'know. I think you might be the first woman he's ever been in love with, actually. So I hope you're not just playing with him. Like I said, I'd really hate it if anyone were to hurt him."

Leaning back in the sofa, Jo smiled. At least the man wasn't bringing out the shotgun that he no doubt owned. Partly, Jo suspected, because he knew perfectly well that he could be threatening enough just on his own.

"I think you're right," she said, "We'll get along."


End file.
